Actions Speak Louder Than Words
by flecksofpoppy
Summary: The equilibrium of Trowa & Quatre's relationship; sexually and otherwise. Trowa/Quatre.


My hands slipped over his shoulder tentatively, testing the reaction that I got as my palms made contact with his body for the first time. He didn't say anything, just sighing inaudibly and it was only due to my fine tuned hearing that I noticed.

My hands moved down his arms slowly, smoothing over the shirt, cupping his upper arms until my fingers were pulled apart and caught by the bump of his elbow. They continued on their way, sliding down until I had his wrists engaged and trapped in the prison of my shaking fingers.

He hadn't spoken since we had begun this strange duet; our trading of places since I was leading and he was following in some way. Or at least that's how we should have neatly fitted into our changed roles. Normally he led and I followed, but not in a submissive threatened way. It was just natural that he talk and I reply, or that he smile and I meet his eyes when he looked at me. I never looked at him first, never touched him or spoke to him first.

And now, I had seized the opportunity of my own courage to change that pattern, and he wasn't following. I was leading, but I had nothing and no one to lead. He still hadn't moved, seemingly rooted to the place he was standing like a statue.

It was always cold on the Peacemillion. The metal floors echoed your footsteps where ever you went, as if constantly reminding you of the immense battleship's presence. I could practically hear my heart beating wildly, echoing forever in these cold ghastly chambers made of war and of blood.

I realized then that my hands were still gripping his wrists, my grasp growing tighter and tighter until my knuckles had turned white and I was sure that his pale skin was red. I let go, fighting the urge to shoot him an apologetic look. His eyes were still closed; he wouldn't have seen it anyway.

I fought the need spiraling inside of me, the long threads that had seemed to wind themselves through my veins and twine around my heart so that with every breath I took, they squeezed. I felt the pain enveloping me when he was near, when his eyes looked at me but didn't really see me. No one really saw me.

For one of the first times in my adult life, I wanted to be touched and indulge myself in something. I was always a rudimentary person, existing easily with orders and routine, living with bloodshed as natural as the sun's rising. And then I had met Quatre.

Everyone around him seemed to change in his presence; they became docile, merciful and open. At least to what extent their respective personalities would allow. He was like some kind of unearthly beacon that radiated good will despite his own heap of misfortune.

But that's not what he was to me. To me, he was Quatre. He wasn't some god send, some shining light in my darkness. In fact, he frightened me and repelled me more than anything else. His eyes were too soft when he looked at me and his mouth smiled too easily in my presence; he made light of the world that I had grown to dread waking up to.

So now, here I am, clasping him desperately for reasons I don't understand due to emotions I doubted that I even housed. I feel like a different person with these feelings and thoughts squeezing my heart and constricting my throat; I can't speak or move. I have the urge to babble things to him, to pull him to me and never let go and feel his firm body against my own. To reassure myself that he's real, that I'm real. Or maybe deep in my mind I want to believe that I am truly what he sees me as.

"Trowa," his voice is breathless as we exchange roles all over again and I easily abandon my lead. I don't answer, because I know that my silence speaks a thousand words.

"Trowa," he says it again in his soft voice, his eyes open but his gaze focused downwards, staring at my hands that are still loosely clasping his wrists.

I don't know what he wants me to do, and my boldness suddenly strikes me as rash and foolish. What was I thinking when I touched him a few moments ago with a million golden thoughts flashing in my mind, my eyes blinded from the obvious awkwardness. The way he's saying my name...it's the same tone that people have used when they feel sorry for me. When they pity one of the universe's many orphans, as if I'm some kind of charity case, as if I'm weak and helpless. I feel anger flare up amongst the other things, pushing the urges to hold him away.

He knows what I'm thinking before he can even try to disentangle the look in my eyes; he has a tendency to do that with me. He knows what I feel before I can even acknowledge it; sometimes he seems to predict the path of my psyche. It frightens me, but it also thrills me.

Does he know what I'm thinking now? As his eyes finally meet mine, does he know that I'm running my fingers through his hair and brushing my lips all over his body, admiring every tiny little feature about him that I've never had a chance to? I want to see his toes, and his knees and his hips. I want to run my hand over his thighs and up his spine, and hear him shudder under my touch. Does he know what I'm thinking now? And if he did, I wonder if he would still be here.

"Quatre," I finally speak, my broken voice sounding ugly compared to his melodic tone that I've grown so used to hearing. There are so many changes in his voice: in battle when he's strategizing in his authoritative tone, in peace time when he's contented, in those rare moments of tranquility when he plays his music, his face communicating more than his voice ever could. He speaks in so many tongues, and all of them are beautiful.

He has no idea how deep my fathoms of thought go at this moment, and I wish intensely that he could just understand them all as easily as he interprets the tiny variances in my facial expressions. The importance of what I'm trying to convey to him is dwarfed by my incompetence in expressing my emotions. This is the first time in my entire life I've ever reached out to someone of my own accord; I've never realized that the need for something could be so acute.

He's lifting his hands up and mine along with them; I let myself go limp as he moves, allowing him to do as he pleases with the dead weight of my arms. Suddenly my back is crammed against the wall as he pushes my arms above my head. He's managed to pin me to the wall regardless of the fact that I was the one who trapped his wrists in the first place; he holds them there for a moment, the space between us seeming cold and starless.

It's so quiet in space. I feel as if we're in a bell jar at times, a silent spatial vacuum that sucks all excessive sound and motion up. He presses against my hands once, then again, testing them to see if I'm going to loosen my grip. I don't understand this strange game he's playing; is this symbolic? Is he trying to tell me something without speaking? Again, I feel as if our roles are being reversed.

I tighten my hold on him, my fingers closing and holding him in place. But in reality, it's him that's pinned me to the spot. I'm only under the illusion that I've caught him.

"Trowa," his voice is more stable and much less tender than before, "why?"

I suddenly lose all my courage and my emotions of grandeur vanish; he's interrogating me. I thought he'd understand, but I suddenly realize that he hasn't. Who would? I come in here, grab his wrists like a rabid animal and then just stare at him with my soulless golem eyes.

I feel incredibly foolish recalling all the flutters of emotion that passed through me when I evaluated the situation, remembering the significance I'd found in his utterance of my name. How ridiculous I am; he was probably trying to subdue me, thinking I'd gone insane or something

I'm cut out of my reverie. He's kissing me.

He's kissing me.

I'm so unprepared that I forget my emotional blocks and gasp, emotionally freeing myself for that moment. He's pressing my wrists above my head desperately now, as if afraid that if he lets go then I will flee.

His body is against mine, and I suddenly am the most aware that I have been of his existence. Not as a savior, or an angel, a victor of war or a soldier; but just as Quatre, as he has always been. The one who plays music with me.

It isn't long or graceful; his lips are clumsy and his hands are shaking, but he feels wonderful against me.

Part of me wants to throw Quatre onto the bed and make love to him right now, another part is whimpering in fear and yet a third part, the calm mature section of my brain, the part that has grown up, that has been fighting in battle since I could walk, realizes that this is the most precious moment of my life thus far.

I can't meet his eyes after we kiss, not yet. His body is pressed more lightly than before when he was leaning towards me, and I suddenly want the gap closed with a furious need. It hits me in a blazing wave and I want Quatre near me. Now.

I slowly lean forward to kiss him again, the gibbering part of my mind that has never done this before causing my caution. It's easier and smooth this time, but still as achingly brief.

And then my eyes are caught by his in a blue trap, all three parts of my formerly split being crystallizing to form me. I see my fear reflected in his gaze; perhaps he always knows what I'm thinking because in some bizarre sense he thinks in the same way.

He drops his hands to his sides suddenly and my own arms plummet down without warning to drop and smack the wall before hanging limply. He offers me a minute smile in awkward apology; but suddenly I feel most of the fear vanish and be swept away in a breeze of freedom.

I wrap my arms around him without hesitation, my lips feverishly meeting his forehead, his cheeks and then his lips again. It's quick and hurried and I wonder if he realizes that it's all intended with tenderness. His arms slowly lift and fasten around me tenuously, his palms pressing against my back in a death grip.

I can't stop kissing him; it's as if a sickness has claimed my rational thought or that I have to make up for lost time or that he might disappear tomorrow. Regardless, I need him now. I need Quatre, the one that I know. The one that I love.

His breath catches in his throat as I move one of my hands to the small of his back, embracing him gently. I suddenly feel ill with hesitation; is this what he wants? Am I justified in touching him like this and giving him the responsibility of allowing me to be so free in his presence? Does he understand what he's undertaking by letting me be with him this way?

"Don't stop," he says softly, his voice timid but sure and he brings his head to rest on my shoulder. His fingers tentatively increase their pressure on my back as if to accentuate his words; I think he is as frightened as I am. But I know he trusts me, and suddenly I realize that he's not the only one undertaking a responsibility. He trusts me; he probably hasn't trusted anyone since his father's death.

"I won't," I reply, my voice dulled to a whisper as I realize what we're exchanging at this moment, the importance of these words and tiny touches.

His face nuzzles my neck and he buries himself in the cloth of my shirt, hiding from the Peacemillion, from the echoes, from his duty and the threat of death. I stroke his back, the fever dying down to glow within me, but the need is still there and still prevalent.

My lips meet with his hair as he stills all motion to lean against me, as if giving himself over to be touched and explored. I can't help but feel like some sort of victor, as if I've fought for something and succeeded. Maybe I've really only been fighting myself this entire time.

My fingers find the edge of his shirt that has been so carefully tucked in and pull it into a disarray, my hand slipping underneath to caress his back lightly; he gives a muffled sigh and my fingers gently rove over his skin, amazed. This is the first time I've ever touched his skin; I can feel the ridges of his ribs and trace one half way around to the front of his chest.

He knows that it's fine to touch me now, but he still hasn't.

Hiding behind the curtain of my hair, I slowly remove my hands and pull back to look at him; I can feel my face coloring slightly as my fingers fumble to undo the buttons of his vest. There's a only a few, and they must be made out of pearl since they're so slippery and sleek underneath my rough fingertips; I suddenly feel like a thief.

As if of their own accord, my hands push the piece of clothing smoothly off of his shoulders and down his arms until it lands on the floor. He's standing before me, looking self conscious in a half untucked shirt with blond hair hanging in a pair of cerulean eyes that are staring at my shoes.

Suddenly I feel bold again, that heat flaring up inside of me as I look at him. Our roles are whirling around us in a protective vortex as if to confuse anyone that should ever try to unravel who was the leader and who was the follower. I allow myself a microscopic smile at him and pull off my shirt.

He looks startled and almost terrified as the dark piece of fabric flutters to the floor behind me. I stand in front of him for a moment, letting him examine me. Scars and all.

Touch me Quatre, please. I need your hands on me, I want you near me. But he turns away in sudden humiliation, his face intensely troubled and full of doubt. My hopes rise and then plummet; I don't think I've had such a wide variance of emotions in my entire life as I have with Quatre in the last five minutes.

I step forward to stand next to him; he's strangling the beam of my bed in a white knuckled grip, his body slouched slightly as if he wants to protect himself from a storm. The other arm is clutched protectively across his chest, his body taking the stance of someone in danger.

If he wants me to leave I will. If he wanted me to jump out of Peacemillion at this point without a flight suit, I probably would. If he spurned me, I'd be back for more. I relinquish all my pride and value to him; I belong to him. He has my soul in his clutches if I have one.

Carefully, I lay a hand on his shoulder. When he doesn't shrug if off, I risk snaking my arm around his waist.

I don't know whether he needs me to stop hesitating or if he needs time to truly come to terms with this revelation. He had kissed me, he had held my wrists...he makes me feel this way simply by looking in my direction. I can't bear to be alone anymore, not when he's right in front of me.

I can sense my entire body burning as I press against him from behind, my lips kissing the side of his face. There is no more time for consideration or hesitation; it's now or never for me, because I've been waiting sixteen years to act on my instincts.

Not encountering any resistance, I untuck the rest of his shirt and begin unbuttoning it. He doesn't move, but just seems to dumbly watch my fingers work as if he's not actually involved in what's transpiring.

"Quatre," my voice sounds hollow and dead as I step around so that I am facing him and sit down on the bed behind me, my hands resting at his waist with his shirt hanging open to expose his pale chest. His eyes hold a terrified light, but I won't let that deter me. Perhaps I'll be paying for it later, but I would never forgive myself if I didn't try.

"Yes?" he answers finally, his usually steady, reassuring voice unstable as his eyes snap away from nowhere to me.

Again, I can't speak. I let my eyes speak for me, and for the first time since I can remember, I let my emotions be reflected openly so that he'll understand. He does appreciate this turn of events, his hands closing over mine that are resting at his waist. Questions and doubt are fluttering erratically through my mind.

He moves in close to me so that my arms embrace him, but he's still standing and for a moment he allows me to press my lips lightly to his torso and kiss his skin. The contact makes a tiny sound that isn't large enough to echo throughout the winding halls of Peacemillion, and he closes his eyes, calm.

Eventually he manages to sit down next to me and then lie back so that his body is supported by the small single bed with his legs dangling off the edge. He just looks at me then, awaiting whatever it is he figures I'm planning.

The truth is I'm out of steam and instinct; I never let myself believe that there was some chance of Quatre responding in a positive way to my fascination with him. From the first moment I had snared his wrists, I found it surprisingly easy to navigate my course of action.

But now I'm at a loss, staring straight back at him as his eyes cut through me. We're both so lost. There's no leader now and no followers; I feel an overwhelming sense of fear take the place of my former adrenaline induced confidence.

The room is suddenly cold, accented by the empty black sky looking harsh and unforgiving through the small porthole window. The bed is awkward and creaky, my scars must look absolutely grotesque and extremely visible in the harsh lighting; I am very aware of reality. I've found my way out of this little dream world only to find that I'm still wholly lost and directionless.

Drawing my knees up to my chest, I stare at the wall, feeling a pair of bright blue eyes boring into me. I feel as if I'm some sort of lab specimen being examined under a microscope; a horribly malformed and damaged freak. Every beat of my heart brings more emptiness; it's as if I felt numb before, and now that my emotions have been awakened I'm filling with the substance of a black hole. Dark and thickly ebony with an acute awareness of my own short comings that bring self disgust.

I wish I didn't exist.

Should I apologize? No, I'm too far in it to do anything so superficial. Why is he looking at me like that? I'm beginning to suspect that it was a mistake to so rashly follow my emotions on the spur of a moment. I need the drunken effect of adrenaline in order to face Quatre like this, and I'm lost without it. I'm lost without him.

His arms go around me before I can make a decision after calculating all of my options and the dangerous spontaneity of this day returns in full force. His hands are soft on my back, slowly working their way in a smooth path up to my shoulders where they stop, resting there as if waiting for me to lash out.

I resist the urge to snap my head around and look at him; the shock of what he is doing is just catching up with my reeling brain. But I don't want this to stop. I realized that when his skin left my fingertips and I had suddenly felt as if a part of me was missing; I need him to reassure me that he's here.

His thumbs lightly knead my shoulders momentarily as if instructing me to relax; he's doing this for me. He's becoming the leader because I can't, like he always does. He's helping me in my struggling attempt because he is strong, and I need his help. I admit it.

I need someone's help. But only his. Only Quatre's, because there is an irreversible link between us that can't be severed by any stretch of the imagination. If one of us stops, the other is tugged along and forced to cease in any course of action. I suddenly feel as if there are one thousand tiny little wires tying my heart to his; when he is near, the bindings don't hurt. Not anymore.

With some help he maneuvers my body so that I'm lying against him as he sits, his face above mine looking at me upside down. He just smiles and I am flooded with memories of the first time we ever met, the first time I ever saw him careen from the cockpit of Sandrock down onto the out-stretched platform, his whole body taught as he yelled at me that we shouldn't be fighting each other. His eyes were so insistent and I was so shocked that an enemy pilot was waving his arms at me in surrender (regardless of the fact that he had his own little personal army standing behind him) that I came out with my arms above my head, silent as always.

Quatre has always looked fragile, but he has a fierce determination under his skin that has both resulted in brilliant strategies as well as the destruction of a civilian resource satellite when he was under the influence of the Zero System.

He bends over, hands placed on either side of me on the bed to balance himself and presses his lips to my collar bone, kissing in tiny motions until he reaches one of my shoulders. The movement is so gradual and so relaxing that I forget my former swirl of uncertainty and close my eyes, my body going totally limp.

Strands of blond hair brush across my skin from his lowered head and I fight the urge to sigh; I haven't felt this free...ever. I can't remember a time when I had this feeling so firmly embedded into me, this foreign sensation of being free of all my worries and nightmarish memories.

I slowly pull away and sit up to look at him; he looks somewhat taken aback and before either of us can be caught up in fearsome doubts again, my hands reach out as if possessed to hesitantly slide one side of his shirt half way down an arm so that his shoulder is exposed to me. His collar bone stands out in sharp relief as he takes a sudden breath and his body tenses; this is new to him. This is all new to him.

Forcing my eyes to meet his, I am faced with two wide blue eyes brimming with emotion and questions that probably continue to mount up as our encounter lengthens. I don't say anything, although I doubt that he expected me to voice any answers. And the truth of the matter is I don't have any. I don't know why I'm doing this and I don't understand the waves of emotion that are passing through my body and guiding me. But this feels right and I do understand the one simple fact that I need Quatre in the same way that I need air.

In one smooth motion I pull down the other side of his shirt, my gaze meeting with the strain of his ribs as he inhales breath after harsh breath. He is scrunching up the fabric of his shirt in a white knuckled grip that is still clinging to his lower arms where he hasn't quite shed it completely, latching onto as he would a safety blanket.

His skin is probably a shade paler than mine but lacks the crisscrossing scars that adorn my back and torso and he looks even more at ill ease as my eyes rove over him. After a moment of silent scrutiny that seems like a lifetime, he opens his mouth to say something and then shuts it again.

A moment later he does the same thing, the words getting caught in his throat so that he rather resembles a gaping fish out of water with the huge eyes to match. If he wants me to stop, I need him to tell me. I need to hear it from his mouth, because no amount of pleading looks that melt into trust a few seconds later are going to stop me from touching him. I came to that conclusion a substantial amount of time ago.

Waiting patiently, I give him a chance to protest, to tell me that I'm horribly mistaken about his intentions and that I need to get the hell away from him. I give him a chance to say that he doesn't want this, that my hands on his skin are wrong and that my touch sullies him. I give him a chance to reject me.

He doesn't say a word.

Oh Quatre...sometimes I wish that I could understand you half as well as you understand me.

My hands land on both of his shoulders, just perched there, not moving. His eyes widen even further if that's possible; I'm sure my face is staying totally neutral. I admire his expression with a pang of jealousy at his ease to express his inner thoughts so fluidly. Although that probably wouldn't be to my advantage, it's a fanciful thought I've always harbored deep within the inner recesses of my mind. Wondering what it would be like to laugh when I wanted to, or smile or frown or even yell when I was angry. Anything but the lack luster mask I constantly wore in order to deceive anyone from ever finding out who I truly was. Oz officer, clown or Gundam pilot. Each individual group I'd encountered accepted me with ease due to the ever changing personalities I took on; Trowa Barton, the incredible doppelganger.

But Quatre was different because he never expected me to be anything.

My hands run down his arms from his shoulders and then his sides until they are resting at his waist again, my fingers wrapped comfortably around the curve of his slight body. His arms are still trapped in his shirt and he hasn't moved since I had slid it off; so I just continue to touch him, not meeting any resistance, although no encouragement is offered in any form. The only movement are his eyes following my hands everywhere they go, staring at them as if he had never seen a pair of hands before.

As if hypnotized, I scurry forward a little from my sitting position so that my knees are meager inches away from his. Not knowing what else to do, I just look at him again although my hands remain where they are. His eyes dart from my hands to my face and then back to my hands as if at a sudden loss of how to function properly.

Quatre's silence is unnerving because I know that he needs to say something or communicate something to me; I can sense his desperation in the air mingling with a number of stray emotions.

And suddenly I know. He's afraid; not of me but of what we're doing. Maybe even because it's me and because it's him; I understand because I'm frightened too. But the twisting flames in my blood have been smothering my fear.

So I'm giving him an invitation to join me; laying back, I totally stretch out on the bed and lie on my back, my eyes locked with his the entire time. Without further ado or consideration, I offer my hand to him, palm up and outstretched, waiting for his reaction.

He takes in one sharp breath and then resumes the quick shallow gasps that have dominated his lungs ever since I claimed his shirt. Finally, as if snapping out of a trance, he sluggishly squirms out of his shirt completely, drops it onto the floor and takes my hand.

His grip is painfully tight but I clench my own fingers around his firmly as he hesitantly lays down next to me, trying to regulate his breathing pattern. I lean forward and kiss his forehead lightly; he's taken a major leap of faith.

Using his other hand, he brushes my hair out of the way so I have no protective curtain to hide behind and I suddenly feel very vulnerable. He's looking straight into my gaze for a few moments before he lets his eyes wander downward; I can feel the weight of his gaze tracing the ugly scars on my shoulders that snake all the way to my waist. I once counted; there actually aren't that many when put into numerical value and only two that are nastily visible and blatant.

My hand disengages from his and I cast my gaze downwards, suddenly filled with an acute humiliation at his scrutiny. His fingers dance over them, tracing the thin tracks of scar tissue and end up entwining in my hair.

The fear is retreating from his face and his eyes remind me of the same color of a calm sea; unexpectedly he presses his body to mine completely, our hips lightly touching and my chest pressed to his. His eyes are closed and he wraps a single arm around me, fingers splayed solidly against my bare back.

I can feel my desire flare up and my legs part slightly out of instinct, half forgetting Quatre's former hesitance. Before my mind can catch up with my body, my hips are grinding into his and my breathing quickens with my pulse. Time seems to freeze as Quatre's body tenses.

Instead of anything I expected however, he seemingly just gives into his body's urges as I have and his hips grind back against mine, as if answering me. His eyes are still closed, and his hand increases its pressure on my back but he continues to thrust his lower body in tiny movements towards mine as if his mind and his body are warring against one another.

Oh god, he feels so good against me. I wrap my arms around him tightly, all tact totally forgotten and evaporated as I wantonly fall into a rhythm with him, our bodies moving together as he lets out a low moan.

"T-Trowa...," he stutters, his voice low and taxed.

"Hmm," is all I can reply, a long and drawn out sound since I'm far too lost in this sensation to say more.

I want to see him. All of him. I have to touch him, I have to feel every single inch of his skin and witness his body as a whole thing. I'm totally lost and caught up in the whirl wind of adrenaline and arousal we have created so quickly.

My hands are snaking down his torso between us, reaching the waistband of the pants he is wearing and fumbling with the buckle of his belt. He just sighs, not protesting as I half expected him to as I finally unzip his pants and pull them down around his ankles. Shoes come off and then his socks; all items of clothing except for the only garment he has left hit the floor in a pile.

Every little detail of him seems exquisite and precious; the graceful curve of his foot that leads up to the well muscled legs. His hips that jut out ever so slightly and then meld into his torso to meet up with ribs, wrapping around his body to join his spine and finally reaching his neck. The shoulders flaring out firmly, connected with his collar bone which stands out in sharp relief.

He's looking at me, following my gaze as it roves the shapes and planes of his body reverently until landing on his face and I find my stare snared by the bluest eyes I have ever seen. As if giving me permission, he closes his eyes after gazing at me for a few moments, letting his hands rest at his sides and shudders when my hand makes contact with his left leg, lightly sliding upwards.

I kiss the inside of his ankle, the round bone a hard sphere under the pliancy of my lips; his foot points slightly as he stretches his leg and I move upwards. No inch of visible skin escapes my gaze or my touch and Quatre slowly relaxes, the tension seemingly evaporating from his body.

His hands are unexpectedly at the waistband of my jeans and undoing the belt, unzipping them and my hands are suddenly frozen. I'm not prepared for this.

His fingers slip beneath the waistband and whisper over the curve of my body down to the back of my thighs, his fingertips just grazing the skin. I bite back a gasp as he lets his hands just sit there unmoving with my body totally frozen.

Finally he shifts, hands tugging down my jeans until I mirror him, clothed only in a pair of boxers. With a little mechanical help on my part my jeans and other various articles of clothing land on the floor in the same pile as everything else.

And then we stare at each other, not knowing what in the hell we should do next with a million lustful thoughts of what we could do burning in our heads.

The moment seems to crystallize and all calm shatters; we feverishly embrace each other at the same time and my shoulder is covered with quick furious kisses and before I even know what's happening Quatre's tongue just barely makes contact with the hollow of my throat.

I can't hold back any longer, and a moan finally makes its way out of my throat as he touches me. I can feel my spine arching in an involuntary response and his hands are everywhere, touching me, memorizing my body.

My legs are wrapping around him tightly, the bed squeaking indignantly at us as I move and he slowly ceases, letting me grind against him. I'm on top of him, my body pounding against his as I thrust against his hips. His eyes are closed and his head is back, the white of his neck totally exposed as his breathing becomes heavy and constricted.

"Trowa...," my name catches my attention as he exhales it breathlessly, his eyes bright and looking at me as if some sort of fever has claimed him.

His voice holds a mix of being heavily drugged with passion and also a note of doubt in regard to what he seems to want to say.

"Say my name," he says it softly, as if it's a foolish request and he flushes slightly in embarrassment.

I just stare at him in surprise for a moment, but I'll do as he asks. I'll do anything he asks.

"Quatre," my voice is breathless and worn, and I calm myself, my body falling to the side and my fingers sliding to his waist.

He just sighs, his hips still moving the tiniest amount as if I've never left, as if his body is expecting me to still be there. Without debating my actions, I slip the last piece of fabric clothing him down just enough to expose his hips, moving myself so that I can kiss the slightly protruding bone.

"Quatre," I say again, my voice stronger this time. I decorate his hips liberally with light kisses, loving the feel of his lower body still weakly forcing itself up, desperately searching for an absent partner.

And finally I pull the fabric off, his body totally vulnerable and bared. I'm almost afraid to touch him, his body in a state of arousal where more intelligent senses of thought and rationality are impaired and the only thing that you know is touch.

I've never seen Quatre so out of control and wanton; the only time I can think of is when he was in the Zero System directly after his father's death. He had gone temporarily insane, convinced that any armed colony had to be destroyed. He figured if the colonies were going to have weapons, he was going to destroy everything. Either all or none.

He doesn't ever talk about his father's death or his reaction; he often speaks of his family as his reason for fighting. But he hasn't told anyone about the day that his father blew up one of the resource satellites when he was still inside.

It made me half hate him; I'd never met the man, and from a detached point of view I'm sure he had noble intentions, but he had left Quatre alone. That's one part of Quatre's psyche I'll never understand.

Now here he was, lying in front of me working on pure instinct with no reservations and it was unnerving. I wasn't used to seeing him like this; but he wasn't used to seeing me in this state either. Perhaps we would go insane together; I don't care. As long as we're together.

Lowering the length of my body on top of him, he gasps as our erections brush together and his arms bind me in an iron clad grip, pressing my body to his.

I roll onto the bed, laying on my side and facing him. There is fumbling as he strips me, looking me up and down with a shy smile on his face that I barely catch.

His fingers start at my throat, trailing lazily down until he finally touches my erection; I haven't been touched in God knows how long. And I've never been touched like this.

Quatre's hand is gentle and then a spark of something hot burns through my body as he tightens his grip and pumps experimentally. Every thought vanishes in a flash of white noise as he commits this act; but it's only because it's Quatre. Anyone else and I probably would have just frozen up.

"Trowa," my name sounds dark and erotic as he says it, overshadowing the former gentleness between us.

I can't answer, biting my lip until I can taste bitter metallic blood; blood is one thing I'd learned to associate with anything sexual.

My eyelids are fluttering as unparalleled sensations claim my body, my chin jutting up as I throw my head back, hands fisting to grab at the sheets below me tightly. I had long ago fallen from my side onto my back, my entire body writhing wildly.

A snap of something inside of me, and I feel as if my soul is leaking out of every pore in my body. My mind is totally numb, my heart is going to explode.

Quatre's lips are gently kissing my forehead as I return to some sense of coherence and the tender look is back on his face; and then something hits me that has been blatantly obvious the entire time. It's wholly absurd that I had only realized now.

He's going to want to...oh god. I don't...I can't...oh god.

I try to say his name but nothing comes out apart from a whoosh of air; my voice seems to have disappeared. My hair is clinging uncomfortably to my sweat dampened face and guilt is gnawing at the fringes of my reappearing mind that Quatre still hasn't had any release. And I want him to; I want him to by my doing.

"What's wrong?" his voice is low, stable and back to normal and full of concern.

"I..," I just clench and unclench my fist.

I know he will be able to feel my memories and sense my distress within a few moments; he'll clutch his heart and then stare at me in wide eyed terror, as if he's violated me by not seeking my permission for every single little thing that we've committed tonight. That's what will hurt the most.

"I already felt it a few minutes ago," he says quietly, not meeting my frantic gaze, again reading my thoughts in that unnerving way of his.

He just kisses me lightly on the temple; he knew all along, or at least had some idea. Yet he still trusted me, and let me lead him. And I'm not afraid anymore; I finally understand him.

Without a word I pull him on top of me, and though he's slightly surprised, his gaze softens at the determined look reflected in my eyes.

It's been so long.

He knows what I want to happen. I don't have to tell him or even look at him for him to know, for him to accept what I've decided.

His skin is soft with firm underlying muscle that belies his strength and he begins a slow rhythm between us, moaning softly and losing himself in the moment all over again.

Slicking some of my cooling release onto his erection, my legs are bent up and clasped around him as he positions our bodies for what's about to come.

A thousand different thoughts flash in my mind all at once; the pain that will be here any moment, the unfamiliar sensation of excitement coursing through me. But Quatre trembles slightly and the hesitant look on his face reminds me that we're both experiencing something for the first time; it just happens to be different things.

Finally he enters me, searing pain that travels up my body; but I'd been expecting it and steel myself against it. My eyes are watering, and then his hand is clasping mine tightly with the other balancing him on my shoulder.

He pulls out and then pushes in again, a little harder this time and I will my body to relax and allow the intrusion; I bite my lip again, reopening the fresh cut on the inside of my mouth that I had made before.

For the last time he eases fully inside of my body and I begin to relax, squeezing his hand involuntarily at the burn of pain that's still so prevalent.

Suddenly he thrusts in earnest, and all former thoughts are totally abandoned as an explosion of something wonderful hits me and throws me for a loop. I wasn't expecting that.

A cry is out of me before I can help it and it echoes throughout the room and probably down the halls of Peacemillion; at this point I could care less.

He thrusts again and again, his eyes open and staring into mine as my body responds to his, moving together as if we are one thing. The blue of his eyes is all I can see, never ending cerulean that seems to span further than the universe outside of our windows.

I fight the urge to close my eyes and at that moment, I am the most vulnerable I have ever been; he's deep inside of me, causing me to cry out every time we move and staring straight into my eyes, seeing every changing emotion and every tiny spark of pleasure that he is the root of.

And I welcome it.

His face is intense in its concentration; our hands had parted long ago and he had both of them firmly planted onto my shoulders as he continuously pounded into me, my arms clasped tightly around him as our lower bodies moved together.

"Quatre," my voice is broken all over again as burst after burst of intense pleasure explodes within me. He just kissed me feverishly in response, our bodies increasing in pace more and more quickly until I felt dizzy.

His entire body stiffened suddenly and he muffled a scream into my shoulder, our bodies still weakly moving together as I climaxed a few moments after him, my hands tightening into fists hard enough to leave bruises across his back.

Quatre collapses weakly on top of me, mumbling unintelligible things in my direction and stroking my hair, wrapping himself protectively around me.

I can barely move, my arms feel dead and I close my eyes from exhaustion. I can feel the smile against me, his fingers entwining tightly with mine in some reserved strength.

I'll never know the angel, the savior, the insane Zero System maniac or the empathizer.

Because right now, all I have is Quatre, and that is all I want.


End file.
